Watch Out Below

Spicing It Up

The other day I mentioned porn and that got me to thinking. After much consideration I have come to the unequivocal conclusion that men should be forever banned from the making of porn films. Not only that they should not be able to write porn, direct porn, or cast the stars of these low budget features; they probably shouldn’t be able to watch them either.

I will confess right here I am not a big fan of the genre. I don’t like how women are demeaned and objectified. I don’t like “please me no matter what” attitudes of the men involved. But most of all I don’t like the plots. Actually, there are no real plots and that is exactly where the trouble lies.

Men make porn the same way they played with their toy cars when they were kids. First off, they look for the most elusive or expensive model there is. Always.Who cares about what the color is as long as it’s a Porsche! This is followed by further scrutiny about how they will look driving the car and how fast can they can get into it and go. Next up: Leather or cloth seats? Pumped up tires or standard? With a bra or without? Essentially nothing has changed. Just pull it out back and let it rip. Banging into as many as they can becomes the name of the game, both young and old.

Now, I am not advocating more porn but I know that if women made porn there would be real plots. Instead of sex occurring one minute after the show began, it would take at least a half hour of fancy dresses with numerous costume changes, plenty of castles, and lots kissing and foreplay. The sets wouldn’t be sleazy formica kitchen countertops but fancy feather beds, lush tropical beach settees, and foods like grapes, whipped cream and caviar acting as aphrodisiacs.

I guarantee you that if women made porn the actors would all have straight dicks and perfect teeth. The men would have normal sized tools instead of scary looking tree trucks and the woman would all be able to walk upright instead of bent-over due to the size of their breasts. The actors would all manage to look like your fantasy lover not something that was drug in off of the street. And the sex act itself, well, it would last exactly 22.2 minutes because we all know what happens to our tender parts if you go much longer than that. No woman should ever be put in the position where she has to say, “You are wearing out your welcome.” THAT look of “GET THE HELL OUT” that always crosses the woman’s face in man-made porn would never occur in a film created by gals.

If women made porn they would turn it into a series in which the viewer knew everything about the characters and cared for them like their own family members. Debbie would do Dallas but she would also do it in the blooming rose gardens of Versailles. By the end of the show you would know all of Debbie’s friends, her parents and her favorite food. She would be a fully developed person, not just a sex machine. And while Debbie and Grant were getting it on in the opera box but we would also get to see the Joffrey Ballet set the mood as they performed a portion of The Nutcracker at the same time.

You see, if women made porn it would be something grand.It would be something your husband would call you about to remind you to chill the wine because tonight is “our night to watch Upstairs and Downstairs too.” And if there were English accents involved it would be all the better to set the mood.

Women based porn would be something women wanted to watch and men too. It would increase desire and promote safe sex. And I am willing to bet if this were the type of porn that we spent watching with our partner we would all be having a whole lot more pleasurable and sexy sex instead of demeaning sex…and isn’t that what the goal should be in the first place?

The other night we took our first dance lesson. We had been looking for something fun to do and this just seemed to fit the bill. We picked something that was not fast or sassy like the Rumba or Salsa. The Slide didn’t generate much interest nor did the Polka. We decided that the only prerequisite was that the music needed to be old and slow …just like me… and most of the other students who showed up. In short that left us only one dance…the Waltz.

For those of us who know me and before you howl in laughter let me assure you that this waltzing stuff is hard work. YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER:

Eyes up..keep looking over your partner’s left ear.

Left hand held high…but not too high…not too low either.

And keep in mind that your right hand must be seen at all times in order to prove you are not goosing your partner.

And those feet…keep them out from under your partner.

Make your steps smaller.

Make your steps bigger.

Go slower

Now faster

And ladies, to make this dancing stuff even harder… you will be moving BACKWARDS!

“Okay, I’ve got this,” I thought after doing the box step about a dozen times. By then, B and I had stopped fighting about who got to lead. But then, horrors of horrors, we were told to switch partners! It had the effect on me that an orgy would…get me the heck out of here!!!

Now I know I said for the next week I would only write positive things. So here goes: I am positive I have two left feet and should be banned for dancing forever. By the time we were done I think my other partners believed so too. I looked like a teenage boy at his first boy-girl dance in Junior High. Graceful was not in the cards but stress induced acne was.

My first partner smiled big as I slipped into his arms. His smiled disappeared the first of the seven times that I stepped on his toes. “Stop trying to lead,” was his helpful advice.

When I arrived before partner #2 I laughed wickedly and said, “I was a teenager of the 70’s. I either danced alone or did the BUMP.” I saw “CHALLENGE” flash through the man’s eyes. We had only gotten three steps into the box when he said in a superior and slightly uptight manner “Stop trying to lead.”

Partner #3 was obviously a professional dancer. I tried the BUMP conversation again at which point he said, “Hogwash, I can make any dancer look good.” Turns out he was wrong. He waved me on to the next man with a “Stop trying to lead” tripping off his tongue as I inadvertently did the same over my own foot.

Partners 4, 5,6, and 7 all had the same thoughts and “stop trying to lead” became the mantra of the day. This dancing stuff was tough and not necessarily because of the movements and coordination that was involved. Truth be told it was the fighting each man to lead that was doing me in.

I think at this point I should confess that I do like to lead in all areas of my life. Frankly, I am a natural born leader and a forward thinking kind of girl. I try not to look back in life with too many regrets and apparently this going backwards stuff while doing the waltz didn’t leave me without regrets either. I soon began to ask myself, “What am I doing here?”

Finally after being paired with so many different partners, I arrived back into B’s arms. It felt good and comforting to be held by someone so familiar and suddenly I found myself moving backwards with ease. In retrospect, I think it has something to do with trust and for those few moments I had an abundance of it as B waltzed me across the ancient hardwood floor.

I wish it was that easy in real life. It must be amazing to just let go and get swept up in the moment, gracefully put one foot in front of the other, and in time to whatever life throws your way. It must feel marvelous being able to trust your partner and to know without a doubt that they won’t bang you into any walls or waltz you right off the stage. To know that your back is covered and your feet are too. And it must be awesome to move with your partner to life’s beat without constraint and without a care in the world.

I hope dancing will teach me all of those things and more. I am even more hopeful that dancing will allow me to finally recognize something even more important:

That following doesn’t mean giving up the lead…it only means you’ll tread on fewer toes!

I just returned from the beach where it rained 3/4 of the time we were there but I loved it anyway. Something about that salt air makes me feel calm and peaceful. There I can enjoy all that life has to offer…easily. I am thinking if that is all it takes perhaps I should buy a noise machine that sounds like waves and an automatic scent sprayer that evokes that sea salt smell so I can trick myself into bliss 24 hours a day.

Speaking of bliss, while we were up north, B shaved off his beard and moustache. I haven’t seen him without it for over 25 years. Five of his six children had NEVER seen him that way either. It was quite a shock. But underneath it all there was something edgy and sexy about having a new man by my side. The smooth skin of his face now matches the smoothness of his balls and it does mind-tripping things to the fingers as they slide along matching parts of his body located at different ends. I have to admit I felt a little bit like Mrs. Robinson taking her young smooth talking boy to bed with her but take him I did and was I ever glad I did! After 30 years of stubble… smooth felt like velvet on my body and my body responded to these new sensations extremely well especially for a 50+ year old woman with four children sleeping under our roof.

Tomorrow (which is now today as I write this) I leave for the southern part of the state where I will spend time with my kids and doctors. When I will write the magazine article that is due sometime in the next six days is beyond me but who cares…I have decided to be carefree and refuse to worry about what MIGHT bite me in the ass because of it! Until then, I am heading upstairs to get in touch with my husband’s new bare-ass naked wild side.

I never thought that men in kilts would do anything for me. I mean, after all, knobby knees don’t make me weak in the joints. And hairy legs just make me look at my own and run for the razor. Men in knee highs…well, it is the stuff that horror movies are made of and I have never really had the inclination to lift a skirt regardless of who it belongs to. But this weekend might have changed all that.

Over the past four years or so I have had to get used to watching my husband walk around in a kilt. This kilt-wearing began after a trip to Scotland. I was interviewing a bagpipe maker and B went along for the ride. As we exited the quaint shop in Sterling he said, “I think I want to play the bagpipes.” I almost fell to my knees. First off, B had never played an instrument in his entire life and even the best piper can at times sound like a goat caught in a fence. The odds were not in his favor for becoming the next “Bach of the Bagpipes.” Secondly, for the most part men like B just don’t wear kilts. They wear hardhats, they wear steel-toed boots and they wear Calvin’s tighty whities. They wear those whities because boxers make them highly uncomfortable… there is not enough fabric to protect and hold up what lies within. So an open-air let-’em hang kilt…forget it…I just couldn’t imagine such a thing would ever happen. I was wrong.

Not only did B buy his pipes he came home and found a pipe band to teach him how to play. It was only a short time later that this Irish lad came home attired in a Scotman’s clothes complete with a sporin. The first time I saw him I looked at those knee socks and thought, “Well there is no way we will ever have sex again!” But eventually I got used his tartan as his ability to play and his demand increased. Now he is a full-fledged member of the band and spends time performing at funerals, store openings and Celtic Festivals. But still the kilt just didn’t do much for me…until this weekend…Really.

Now I don’t know if it was the whiskies talking or the rain but about 2 hours after I started drinking those men in plaid started to look mighty fine. The more I drank the better they looked and those knee socks began to even look like something that might come handy in the bedroom.

And then I spotted my husband… glory be…that Irishman looked better than any Scot in the place. As we stood listening to the rockin’out pipers of Celtica I put my hand on his butt and…oh laa laa…no thick blue jean material between me and his Calvins and… it felt round and good. Really…the perfect handful.

“Hmmm, maybe I have been missing out on something,” I thought. “I better test this out some more.”

So I did.

That butt felt better the second time around. And I found out the benefit of a man in a kilt. Just where those folds open … how…and why. But I’ve never been one to kiss and tell. Guess you just better go out and find yourself your own man in a kilt so you can find out just exactly what they wear (or don’t) under there and grab your own handful…you won’t be disappointed.

Last month I bought a SEX calendar. No, not one with one position for each day of the year but one to keep track of just how much sex we were having after a not so great comment from B about “slipping back” where sex was concerned. I was pissed as it appeared that the blame was being leveled at me and I was determined to do something about it if only to prove a point. This calendar now hangs on the bathroom wall for easy access so no one “forgets” when we did the dirty deed. Problem is with three teens in the house one just can’t be writing SEX all over the place especially special days like their birthdays. So I have had to become inventive in order to keep track of who did what to whom.

My first entry “B fixed the closet” was a little farfetched but I figured it would work until I wrote it a second time and Gracie said, “What is wrong with your closet and why is dad always having to fix it?”

So I then went to a capital S with circle around it. Andre asked me why I was marking Superman on my calendar. Although it may fit B in the bedroom I quickly got the point that I needed to change my records keeping ways.

Paul asked with the star was about and if it had anything to do with the cycles of the moon.

Frankly, all this calendar watching by the kids was getting to be a tad annoying. I mean can’t we have any privacy even if it is just on paper?

So I have had to invent a series of codes

IDIOT-I did it on top

GHO- Got him off meaning there was nothing in it for me

GMO- The crops have come in and it was all about me

FTD- F***** twice in a day (we have yet to need this one yet)

BS-B was sick (yeah I am not taking the rap for not having sex when you have a fever and fall asleep at 2 pm

CASS-I was sick.

And so it goes.

Unfortunately, we have not had much chance to use these secret sex codes as of late. Between freezing in Tibet, me in Chicago for a week, Nicole with grand babies here necessitating Gracie sleeping in our room, B being sick, me being sick…well, let’s just say the odds have been stacked against us. But yesterday Nicole left, Gracie returned to her own room and late at night we had sex. Finally. Happy, Joyous, Lovely. SEX.

Let’s just say the earth moved and the richter scale said it was a 5.0 which was not bad for two old folks with kids in the house.

Onto my calendar went GRITS

But in morning after taking the kids to school as I was cleaning my bathroom I noticed handwriting scrawled on the calendar other than my own. It read “Can you keep it down please some of us are trying to get some sleep!”

How embarrassing! I think we will buy the little dears ear muffs for Christmas next year!

Let’s start out with a full disclosure…this is crass post and I wonder if I should be asking about this at all but… I yam what I yam.

Since we are traveling sans children to Tibet I have been wondering…is it kosher to have sex in a guest house monastery? There appear to be no written rules of etiquette written about this. In my own experience I have discovered the following:

Secluded beach…okay

Movie Theater…not okay

On a horribly long airplane flight…how often do they clean the blankets?

10th Floor of the Hilton in the elevator…okay if you don’t get caught

In front of the police station in your car…definatly not okay

In your parents house when you are unmarried…oh gross

In your parents house when you are married…oh gross

At the Boy Scout Camp at 3 am in the shower? Probably not but it is a little titillating.

On the roof top of a certain hotel in Vegas…oh yes…please!

But a monastery? Even one with a guest house? I just don’t know. It almost seems sacrilegious like “doing it” on the alter or worse… with the alter boy.

In researching the issue it appears that for a person who is seeking to live a monastic life the answer is a definite NO. According to the teachings of various Buddhist monks, that by ridding ourselves of lust and greed we liberate ourselves from unnecessary suffering. And if the intention is to rid ourselves of suffering we must also rid ourselves of those things that cause suffering and sex would obviously be high on that list. BUT…

I am not seeking to live a monastic life, I will be in a guest house and the most important thing…I will be without children. How does this change the dynamics? I do not know. But one thing I do know is I am not going all the way to Tibet to only use my pilate muscles for trekking up a mountain. I only hope we will be smart enough not to get our body parts frozen to things not easily removed.

Oh and FYI whatever you do NEVER google… sex in a monastery…just sayin’…gross!

This weekend we have hired a sitter and will be without our darling children for 24 hours…I can’t wait! But before we go away I will be telling B something that he needs to know to make our time together perfect.

“Shhhh…don’t say a word.”

Don’t say a word as we walk towards the bedroom. Don’t utter a sound as we pull back the sheets. Don’t whisper a word as we undress (unless you want to tell me how sexy I look). And PLEASE, JUST PLEASE, don’t say anything (nada, nothing) while we are making love.

I know a lot of women like to hear sex talk while they are indulging in adult time with their partner. I am not usually one of them. Okay, maybe sometimes I am, but definitely not tonight. Frankly, I don’t want to hear your fantasies while we are trying to create our own. Worse…I don’t want you intruding on the fantasy that is going on in my own head by imploding/imposing yours onto mine. Believe me they are two totally different shows. Mine is opera and yours is grunge heavy metal. Mine is A Walk In The Clouds while yours is James Bond. Tonight, I just don’t want to hear “it”…I want to hear “you.”

The only external thing I want to hear soft sax music in the background. Besides that, I just want to hear your heart beating as I lay my head on your chest and I want to listen to it quicken when I put my hand between your legs. I want to hear that sigh you make when we first connect with one another and I want to see your blue eyes sparkle at that instant we reach deep into the most intimate of places. I want to eavesdrop on your body’s reactions as we touch one another deeply and passionately. And I want to hear that rumble that starts in your soul and spreads through your body before we both explode.

I want to hear all of you tonight. So please.. “Shhh…don’t say a word!”

Several years ago THE GIRLS and I were sitting around drinking a little wine when the conversation turned to sex. No, not the Birds and the Bees type of sex talk but the We’ve been married a long time and its getting a L.I.T.T.L.E. boring around here, kind.

After various positions had been discussed along with other “Let’s Get Our Groove Back” unmentionables; we came up with a brilliant idea to solve our less-than exciting sex lives. And it involved the very short but strangely sexy and debonaire … Mr. Potato Head. (Don’t you dare go there!)

Yes, Mr. Potato Head improved our sex lives to the point that he should have become a national shrine visited by bored and complacent couples everywhere. He was our Rati, our Eros, Our Hymen and our Yue Lao all rolled into one. In short, he became our sex guru.

So how can Mr. Potato Head solve the problem BORING sex? Easy. He is the prize. He is the mascot. He is the winner-take-all.

Here is how it works.

Every month a new category is placed on the table. These include such places/things as:

Sex in the highest place (Mt. Whitney won)

Sex in the most expensive car (One of the couples went so far as to rent a Jaguar)

Sex in a public place (That would be the glass elevator at the Embassy Suites in La Jolla)

Sex at a beach (The nude beach at Kauai)

Sex at a sporting event (A private box at a baseball stadium)

Best costume sex

Best ALMOST sex

Best hotel sex

Best in the water sex

Best inflatable sex (take it the way you want)

Hottest library sex

Most original place sex

Best massage sex

Hottest Sex (Furnace Creek at Death Valley)

Coldest Sex

Sweetest Sex (on a table of rolled out home-made silky smooth taffy)

Slimiest Sex (a kiddie pool filled with jello)

Most Dangerous Sex

Newest Sex (on the roof of a newly constructed but not occupied hotel in Las Vegas)

Greenest Sex

Almost Got Caught Sex

After a month of valiantly trying to best each other, THE GIRLSwould meet over dinner and a little wine to discuss our sexcapades. After the stories were told (pictures were optional) there was a vote to decide who got to take home the coveted Mr. Potato Head. Winner-take-all. Then the next month’s topic was chosen.

Unfortunately, all THE GIRLS have moved away from one another and the original Mr. Potato Head has long since disappeared into some unsuspecting kids toy box. But three weeks ago in an attempt to spice up our sex life I went to the store and bought a new Mr. Potato Head. He’s a silent spectator (what a voyeuristic little dude) sitting on the top of our bed watching as we “go at it.” And although we are only passing him back and forth between ourselves he is an indicator of our commitment to finding our way back to one another.